


It doesn't rain every day in London

by TheBookshelfDweller



Series: Pieces of Life [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I just needed to stretch my writing muscles so don't expect too much, M/M, they're in love and I'm in hell that's the gist of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 02:24:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4589472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBookshelfDweller/pseuds/TheBookshelfDweller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm not actually gay"</p>
<p>"Well, I am. Look at us both."</p>
            </blockquote>





	It doesn't rain every day in London

**Author's Note:**

> My beta posted a headcanon on Tumblr saying: "okay but imagine John saying “I’m not actually gay” and Sherlock replying “Well I am” MHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AND THEN SHERLOCK SAYS “LOOK AT US BOTH” AND KISSES HIM" (caps lock kept to faithfully convey her feels) and then a friend convinced me to fic it...so...this is what I came up between the hours of 1 and 4 am...

 

* * *

It doesn't rain every day in London. It actually rains less than one is generally lead to think. Sure, it still rains enough to make people forget what colours other than grey look like, but when the sun does come out from behind the clouds, the colours are there. Dear lord, are they there. Purple-mottled dawns, like the sky is bruised, beautifully battered by days of foul weather. Pinks of sunsets, with red burning on the edges, like combustion, like wounds healing, new skin. Have you ever seen a sunny day in London? It's fucking beautiful. It's the stop-and-smell-the-roses kind of beautiful.

So, it doesn't rain every day in London. But it rains on that particular day, which means John ends up not taking the Tube, and the trip to Baker Street ends up taking less time than usually.

It's a Tuesday, and there's rain, and the colours are muted down to the washed-out dullness of old newspaper, the sort used to wrap fish and chips in. It doesn't really mean anything, apart that it rains, so John gives in more easily than he usually would and gets in the black car instead of taking the Tube to the flat. If the price of not coming home wet as a baby's nappy is putting up with Mycroft for the duration of the drive, John can cope with that.

They're both silent all the way to Baker Street. As John climbs out of the car, Mycroft insists on seeing him up, for a reason unknown, since Sherlock won't be home for another half hour.

“Worried I might get lost from my front door?”, John asks.

“One can never be too careful”, Mycroft smiles, and it's colder than the rain.

They walk up to the flat, stopping at the door to the den. John opens it, but Mycroft doesn't make a move to come in, and John doesn't break a sweat to persuade him to.

“Was there anything you needed, Mycroft?”, he asks.

“Not at all.” That smile again. “I merely wished to convey my gratitude. Ever since you resumed your _liaison_ with my brother, he's been so much more bearable to deal with. He seems...content.”

John sighs. “Well, that's nice to know. Could have told me that in the car, but still nice. Anything else?”

“Yes. If you could, please, try and convince him to take the latest case I've sent to him, it would be much appreciated. It seems you have certain _methods of persuasion_ at your disposal that are not available to the rest of us”, Mycroft says meaningfully. John can feel the start of a headache.

“Mycroft, for the last time...”, he begins, but Myroft is already turning away.

“Lovely chatting with you John. Please, have Sherlock contact me as soon as possible”, and with that he's out the door.

“I'm not actually gay”, John finishes to himself and the empty stairwell. And because he says it to himself, he misses the soft sounds from the den – bare feet making their way across the hallway and into the room.

“Well, I am”, comes the voice behind him, and really, Sherlock wasn't supposed to be home yet. But then again, when did Sherlock ever do what he was supposed to?

Dammit, Mycroft.

Pretty much everything in John screams not to turn around, to just make it down the stairs and into the downpour. It would certainly be easier. Very British, too, unlike the alternative (they don't really _do_ talking, now do they?). It would all be ridiculously dramatic if it weren't what it was. Frightening (thrilling). Raw (honest). Half-expected (hoped for). The truth (god, let it be the truth).

“Look at us both”, Sherlock says, because Sherlock always says what John wants to hear least and most. It's ruthless, and Sherlock doesn't even know it. Because John doesn't want to look too closely. That's the whole point. That's always been the whole point. But he also wants...he _wants_. So John turns around, because soldiers don't run, and maybe if he looks at Sherlock, he won't have to look at himself.

(And maybe if he looks at the sun, he'll go blind enough not to see the obvious.)

 

* * *

“Well, I am.”

Sherlock doesn't know why he says it. Because it's true, surely, but mostly because when he hears John mutter those chewed-over words to himself – _I'm not actually gay -_ something in Sherlock snaps; a frayed, worn-out thread that's been gnawed and pulled over the years. He can see John's shoulders tense, his whole body going rigid and cautious, and Sherlock wills him to turn around. He can't do this like this anymore.

God, he's tired. _They're_ tired, dusty, spent. It's like they're playing hide and seek by shutting their eyes and hoping that means the other one can't see them. The mystery holds no appeal anymore, not in this case. Not that there ever was much of a mystery to begin with. They just didn't want to see the obvious. They barely even dare to look, these days. Sherlock's almost grateful for Mycroft's incessant meddling.

“Look at us both”, he says, softly, and he can feel Irene in his memory smiling. She would have approved. Sherlock doubts she'd even be cross about him stealing her lines. It's for a good cause, after all.

He waits until John turns around, waits until he can see the tense line of John's shoulders running up and swirling into the tense line of his jaw, his mouth, his eyes. Sherlock waits until he can read openly in John's face the same thing he knew he saw in the subtle flex of John's hand: that John is afraid.

John is frightened, and Sherlock thinks: _thank god._ Thank god, because bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity. And John isn't stupid, so Sherlock doesn't want him to have to be brave. Not this time. Because bravery is a mask, every time, but fear is honest.

So, for once, Sherlock allows himself to be stupid, and brave, and no lesser for it, because it's for John. It's for himself a bit, too.

John's been brave enough, and now he's scared, and Sherlock's tired, and it's the perfect combination. It's honesty and maturity. Vulnerability and realisation. Both washed-out grey and violent colour. It's like the London weather.

Sherlock plays the brave one, and John doesn't run because soldiers don't do that, and then he doesn't run because he doesn't want to, because Sherlock's right there, crossing the distance, stopping just short of touching.

“Look at us both”, Sherlock says again, more a breath than a voice, and John can't tear his eyes away.

“Yeah...yeah, I'm looking”, he answers, and there's that, and it scares the life out of him, but he's a gonner.

Sherlock kisses him first, which is odd, and brave, and John thinks that maybe it's the most loving thing anyone's ever done. Not because of the kiss, but because of the knowing. Because of the looking, and seeing, and moving first. Because John's eyes are closed, but he thinks that maybe, when he looks at Sherlock next, he'll find it a bit easier to look at himself too.

So they kiss, and the sun doesn't come out form behind the clouds. The rain doesn't stop and the skies don't clear. It doesn't rain every day in London, but it rains just then, and it probably doesn't mean anything. It never did. Have you ever seen a sunny day in London. It's fucking beautiful. Have you ever seen a rainy day in London? Yeah, it's fucking beautiful, too.

 


End file.
